A yellow sphere, a field of green, the chalk line fresh and white,
The energy inside the park builds up beneath the light.
They call the game we love so dear a “soft” and gentle name,
But anyone who takes the field knows true grit rules this game.
The red stitch glides beneath the hand, a windmill starts to spin,
The catcher crouches in the dirt, prepared to block it in.
The batter steps into the box, her knuckles lining straight,
With eyes locked on the moving ball, she waits to meet her fate.
A sudden crack echoes aloud, the ball goes flying high,
A line drive streaking like a flash across the summer sky.
The shortstop dives into the clay, no fear of scrape or bruise,
She makes the throw to first in time; there is no time to lose.
We wear the bruises like a badge, the dirt upon our knees,
The steady rhythm of the cheers, the wind through dugout trees.
For home plate is where our hearts reside, the diamond is our home,
Bound tightly by a sisterhood wherever we may roam.